


Sweet Million Does it Again

by witchsharp



Category: Original Work
Genre: Fantasy, Gen, Magic, More characters to be added as they appear - Freeform, tomatoes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-08-19 19:20:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8222044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchsharp/pseuds/witchsharp
Summary: Sweet Million is a mage fifth class and a servant of the high order. She's also a maintenance worker at Bush Goliath University. She's also been enlisted for a super-secret mission of magical nature; to retrieve a lost item of untold magical power. And she's hoping to get to change out of her pajamas at some point.





	1. Blackmail at Bush Goliath

You ever have days where it seems like you can’t do anything right? Sweet Million, mage of the fifth class, faithful(ish) servant of the high order was having one of those days. Actually, it was starting to feel like Sweet Million’s life was just a continuous stream of those days. It started at five am, when she was woken by the head caretaker pounding on her door.

“We got a clog! Major clog! I know you can hear me Million, get your behind out of bed!” he called through the door. The head caretaker was known for his never-ending cough, his surprisingly loud voice, and his interesting and very recognizable smell. Sweet Million fell out of bed and fumbled around for the alarm clock. 5:03.

“Five?” she whispered. “Who clogs a toilet at this hour?” Technically the student labs at Bush Goliath University never closed, but most people went to bed at some point.

“Get out here Million! The pipes aren’t going to unclog themselves!” the head caretaker called again. The door rattled with the force of his knocking.

“I’m coming, jeez,” Sweet Million said. She pulled boots and socks on hastily, and then stuffed her pajama-clad self into her rain jacket. There was no time for official robes. And even if there was, the rain jacket was probably better. More… splash-proof. When she opened the door the head caretaker was tapping his foot and glaring.

“Took you long enough.”

“Gimme a break Mr. Grande,” Sweet Million groaned.

“Come on, North wing.” Mr. Grande (first name Cluster) led the way, and Sweet Million hurried after him.

 

The clog was because someone had flushed a leftover sample of troll brain, which essentially turns into glue in the pipes. Sounds like the kind of thing you would have to deal with once in a lifetime, and it should have been, because everyone knows better than to flush troll brain, but apparently not at this university, because it was the fifth time in the two months that Sweet Million had been employed (if you could call it employed) at Bush Goliath.

She asked Mr. Grande if this was a weird crop of students or something and he just laughed.

“Kid, you got a lot to learn,” he said.

“Oh, no.” 

By the time they were done, the sun had risen. Sweet Million dragged herself down to the kitchens and obligingly spent some mana unsticking the meat slicer again, in exchange for a ham sandwich. She ate it on the narrow balcony overlooking the empty dining hall, watching the staff set up chairs and wipe tables in anticipation of the breakfast rush, and burning mana on little bubbles of light.

By the time students and professors had begun to trickle into the dining hall, Sweet Million had work to do. She headed down to the front gardens, where she was supposed to be assisting in the repair of several of the front windows. Sounded like a task where magic would be involved, but she’d been working on it all week with the second-in-command caretaker Skorospelka (she’d never provided a last name) and it mostly involved holding a ladder steady.

On her way out of the dining hall she bumped into a student who was staring down into a book instead of watching where he walked.

“Sorry,” she mumbled.

“Sorry,” he echoed, looking up. “Hey, do I have History of Necromancy with you?” Sweet Million looked at him like he was bonkers. Then she realized she was still in her pajamas and rain jacket. Right. Without her official robes she could just be another student. Could be training as a mage sixth class. Instead she had windows to replace.

On her way down the hill Sweet Million slipped on the dew-soaked grass and fell backwards onto her butt. When she got up her pajama pants were damp and muddy. An inauspicious start to the day. And it only got worse from there. Before noon she had managed to drop two of the plates of colored glass they were working with. After noon she accidentally installed three titles in the main hall upside down and had to pry them back up again. And just before evening there was another clog (this time in one of the upstairs sinks) and Sweet Million broke one of the faucets when her spell misfired. 

She trudged back to her room, boots squelching on the floor and leaving a little trail of water droplets. Her fingers felt burnt out from overspending mana. Her head hurt from the clanging of the pipes. But mostly it was the sour taste in her mouth that was bugging her. It had no clear cause, except maybe her own bitterness.

A girl bumped into her, spilling complex spell charts over the hallway floor. Sweet Million crouched immediately to help pick them up. Moonlight sigil.

“Here, sorry,” she said, skimming over the others as they gathered them back up. Most of them weren’t familiar. Sweet Million bit down on the side of her cheek.

“No worries. Everyone’s got their head in the clouds in exam season, clearly I’m no exception,” the girl said, grinning sheepishly. Sweet Million grunted noncommittally. As soon as the papers were picked up she took off down the hallway at speed. Her room was waiting for her and in it were at least dry clothes and a comfortable if lumpy bed. That was part of the deal. Get a bed. Get your own room. Get your privacy. Get days off. No matter how mind-numbing the work was, or how humiliating it was, it had to be better than the alternative.

Inside her room Sweet Million leaned against the door and sighed. She peeled off her boots and chucked her rain jacket on the chair. She swapped her pajamas for a clean set, and slumped over facedown on her bed. She meant to get up in a second or two and and tidy up, brush her teeth and make sure her alarm was set, but instead she closed her eyes for a minute, and then another minute, and then sleep overtook her.

 

On the great spire of Bush Goliath University, lightning struck. It struck the lightning rod, which was a perfectly ordinary occurrence. Buildings with a high concentration of magic draw lightning naturally. In the case of Bush Goliath University, the lightning is siphoned off and used to power the lamps in a few of the upper floor offices. So this lightning strike is only relevant to mention because moments after it happened, a figure on the roof clad all in forest green said:

“That was close.”

“Shut up. There could be open windows anywhere,” a second figure hissed.

“Everyone’s asleep at this hour. Now where’s the lab we’re trying to get to?”

“To your left. Hurry up, we don’t have all night.”

“I’m hurrying, jeez.” The two figures made their way across the roof, quietly broke a window, and entered the University. And while they were doing this, several floors down and several hallways over, Sweet Million was asleep. Lots of people were sleeping. And no one saw.

 

Someone was whispering Sweet Million’s name. Well, not her name, but rather: “hey you!” which often seemed to equate to the same thing. At first it was within her dream, a great snake was hissing it at her over and over. But then it became an actual shout, and she jerked awake. She cracked one eye open in the dark, and searched for the enchanted pink glow of her alarm clock screen. 4:01 am. No. No. No! Who was up at this hour clogging pipes?

“Hey! You! Sleepin’... sleepin’ girl. Wake up, seriously!”

“Whag?” Sweet Million said, squinting into the dark. Someone was standing over her bed. She sat up fast, balling her hands into fists. The figure took a quick step back.

“Hey, sorry for startling you,” they said.

“How’d you get in my room?”

“Window. Don’t worry about it. I need your help. Come on, put yer boots on.”

“What? No! I’m not helping you,” Sweet Million said. She hopped out of bed and snapped her fingers, casting a mage light. It floated up towards the ceiling bathing the room in light. The intruder was a short elf (he looked a good few inches shorter than Sweet Million) with a stringy frame and pale hair, an odd cyan color. He was chewing on his thumbnail hard enough to gnaw it off.

“But you’re Sweet Million, right? Mage fifth class? Faithful servant of the high order?”

“I mean, yes, technically. Who the heck are you?”

“Please, you’ve got to help me. Someone’s stolen the experiment from lab 208, and I gotta get it back before they work out how to use it.”

“Sounds like not my problem at all,” Sweet Million said, folding her arms.

“Well that’s where you’re wrong. Because someone’s broken a bunch of windows on the third floor in the south wing and if you don’t help me I’m going to tell Cluster Grande, who is the head caretaker here--”

“I know who Cluster Grande is! You’re actually trying to blackmail me, in my own room, at four in the morning?”

“That’s how pressin’ the issue is, yeah.”

“Alright, jerkface, let’s say I do help you. What’s in it for me?”

“Glory? Satisfaction of a job well done? A hundred--no, a hundred-and-thirty four gold and…” he appeared to do some quick mental tabulation, “six silver.”

“It’s that important?”

“Lives are at stake. But also, I really  _ really  _ need for no one in the Bush Goliath administration to find out about this.” He stuck out his hand and waggled the fingers. “We got a deal?” Sweet Million stared him down for a long minute. His grin slipped slightly.

“Fine, deal.” They shook on it.

“Okay, get yer boots on and let’s go,” he said. Sweet Million pulled her boots on and laced them up. She grabbed her rain jacket off the chair and shrugged it on.

They slipped out the door and down the hall. Sweet Million grabbed the back of his shirt.

“Not that way. We go through the kitchens. Follow me,” she advised.

“Knew you were the right mage for the job,” he whispered. Sweet Million rolled her eyes.

“Hey, what’s your name anyways?” she asked.

“Me?” he said, coming to a full stop. Sweet Million turned around. He jerked a thumb inward to point at his chest. “I’m Banana Legs.”

There was a moment of echoing silence, in which Sweet Million pressed her hands together and rested her chin on her finger tips. She let out a long breath through her nose.

“Are you still gonna help me?” Banana Legs asked quietly.

“Yeah, I guess,” Sweet Million said. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”


	2. Gargoyle Rights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sweet Million and Banana Legs are on the case of the missing... whatever it is. They are also on the case of Gargoyle suffrage.

They were able to slip through the silent kitchen with ease, and out the back door and up the steps into the front gardens.

“Is your name really Banana Legs?” Sweet Million asked.

“Yeah. It really is,” he said.

“Banana Legs. Yeah. So what are we looking for and how do we find it?”

“Well what we’re looking for is strictly privileged information. And how we find it is: we follow the trail.” Banana Legs hurried over the ground, and then pointed into the dirt. There were footprints in the grass, glowing ever so faintly.

“The glow serum spill in the labs,” Sweet Million said, snapping her fingers. Banana Legs grinned at her.

“Guess it’s my luck the maintenance at Bush Goliath isn’t very good,” he said. Sweet Million gave him a look.

“Sorry. Din’t mean that.”

“Come on. Trail’s going cold as we speak,” Sweet Million said. She wasn’t wrong. The footprints stopped once they got down to the road. Banana Legs swore under his breath.

“Now what?”

“Not many people on the road at an hour like this. We can ask the gargoyles,” Sweet Million said, beckoning Banana Legs to follow her back to the gate, where two gargoyles were perched. One was posed as if he were leaping off his column, and the other was alternating picking her teeth and smoking a foul and somewhat soggy hand-rolled cigarette. Bush Goliath, like any accredited institution of magic, employed several gargoyles as part of the student experience. They also put a damper on bicycle theft.

“Excuse me! Did you see anyone go past here recently?” Sweet Million called up. The gargoyle picking her teeth paused.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe? What’s maybe mean?” Banana Legs asked.

“Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t. Depends who’s asking,” the gargoyle said.

“Mage fifth class,” Sweet Million said, cracking her knuckles. “A faithful servant of the high order.” Banana Legs put a hand on her arm.

“No, no, Banana Legs the elf is askin’. An he would looove to make it worth your while.”

“I’m listening,” the gargoyle said.

“What--what do gargoyles like?” Banana Legs asked.

“What do I look like? A zoology major? They like birds and stuff.”

“Well, what do you want?” Banana Legs asked, fidgeting a little.

“The vote,” the gargoyle said, drawing herself further into a classic gargoylian crouch and flicking away her cigarette butt. It sizzled for a second on the wet cobbles.

“Oh,” Banana Legs said. “I was unaware… that you din’t have it.”

“ _ Male _ gargoyles can vote,” the gargoyle said, tossing a glare towards her frozen co-worker.

“That’s awful sexist,” Banana Legs said.

“Are you even old enough to vote?” Sweet Million asked. Banana Legs shook his head.

“Somethin’ else we can do to further your cause maybe?” Banana Legs asked. His voice had a pleading tone to it. The gargoyle sighed.

“Pass out some buttons?” she asked.

“Yeah, sure thing,” Sweet Million said.

“Behind the column,” the gargoyle said. Sure enough, there was a sack of buttons. “ _ Stand United, _ ” they said, and then in smaller text: “ _ Rights for ALL creatures of magic. _ ” They were bright snot yellow, a color not dissimilar to Banana Legs’ skin (although he was a little greener). 

“Nice,” Sweet Million said.

“Tasteful,” Banana Legs added.

“Did you see anyone then?” Sweet Million asked.

“Yeah. Two guys all dressed in green got into a coach.”

“What kind of coach? Was it marked?” Sweet Million asked.

“Did it say L.A.T. on it?” Banana Legs cut in. Sweet Million stepped on his foot hard. “Ouch,” he said aloud. 

“Nah, it was a taxi,” the gargoyle said. “Now you two should push off, my shift is ending. And hand out those buttons!” she added. Banana Legs and Sweet Million headed further down the hill.

“Kinda seems like we’ve hit a dead end,” Banana Legs said.

“What? When you were pulling me out of my room you were all fire and brimstone, now suddenly you run out of steam?”

“Well it’s just…” Banana Legs trailed off, stuffing his hands into his pockets. Sweet Million started crossing the road and he hurried to follow. The sun was coming up, and now more carts were rolling down the street.

“You said L.A.T. Lord Arkansas Traveler. You really think the most renowned evil wizard in the land is the one out to swipe your experiment? You think he doesn’t have bigger things to do?”

“No. Maybe. S’not my experiment, I was just in charge of it,” Banana Legs mumbled. Sweet Million rounded on him.

“Well then it’s your responsibility to get it back! You went to the effort of blackmailing me, that must have taken guts. So buck up, perk up your ears and let’s solve a crime!” she said. Banana Legs nodded.

“Yeah. Yeah!”

“And let’s change legislature on gargoyle rights!” Sweet Million added.

“Yeah!” Banana Legs cried. “...But how though?”

“The gargoyle said taxi. So… go talk to the dispatch, right? I bet if someone got glow serum in my cab, I’d remember it,” Sweet Million said. Banana Legs gaped at her for a split second, and then his face broke into a grin.

“I  _ knew _ you were the right mage for the job,” he said. Sweet Million snorted. In the back of her mind, a sensible little part of her was telling her she might be better off, in the long run, taking her chances explaining to Cluster Grande, who despite his surly exterior, would probably believe her over Banana Legs. But she squashed that part down so hard it went silent.

Sweet Million would later reflect on that decision as one of the first mistakes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have made it this far, sick! Thanks! Also, what should happen next? And what is the tomato name YOU think belongs in this tale? Tell me, and it will be sick radical


	3. Sleep is Precious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something deeply unfortunate is prophesied. Chello succumbs quickly to bird peer pressure.

-SIX DAYS TO DESTINY-

Chello woke up with a start. When she sat up, her face was stuck to the desk.

“Oww,” she mumbled, rubbing her cheek. Her third eye was full of tears. The prophecy scanner was buzzing and clicking and spitting out paper. It had been printing nonsense for the last two days, just gibberish. Chello snagged the parchment it had just finished and inspected it blearily.

“Oh, beans,” Chello whispered. The raven landed on the windowsill. Chello glared at it.

“Something unpleasant?” the raven asked. Chello sighed.

“Not a good one,” Chello said, folding the prophecy in half and setting it flat on the desk. The raven hopped over to peck at the prophecy scanner. It clunked and coughed.

“This thing sounds broken,” the raven said.

“Don't tell me about it.” Chello blinked sleep gunk and tears from her third eye.

“You going out or what?” the raven asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe. Spitfire said watch the place until he gets back but it’s been…”

“At least a full day.”

“Yeah.” Chello got up from the desk and wandered from the back room into the storefront. It was early morning still, so the street vendors were still setting up carts and laying out wares. She regarded the open/closed sign wearily. “I guess I could open the shop without him.”

“And do what? Spend all day wrestling with the prophecy scanner? That’s really putting your talents to good use.” The raven fluttered down to perch on a stack of rolled parchments. Chello levelled a look at him.

“What’s your angle here?”

“No angle. I just think you might as well get out there and do some destiny breaking, not just stick around the shop and sweep floors. You have the skills, you have the talent? Why let Spitfire get all the tips and admiration?” the raven said. Chello continued to stare. “And I want you to buy me something.”

“Thought so. I’m gonna open the shop now.”

“No, nono, come on,” the raven crowed, fluttering over to perch on the open/closed sign. “Spitfire is probably knee-deep in a dungeon he wasn’t supposed to be in, or worse, a tavern he wasn’t supposed to enter.”

‘That’s my problem how?”

“He’s not going to be back for days.”

“And?”

“And no one else is going to break that destiny,” the raven said.

“That destiny probably isn’t even real. You said it yourself, the scanner’s broken.”

“And if it is?”

“So what?”

“You don’t want a shot at being an official, real destiny breaker?”

“I’m not… qualified,” Chello mumbled, reaching for the open/closed sign. The raven pecked her on the hand, almost hard enough to draw blood. “Ow!”

“No one else is going to do it.” That was probably true. Chello ran her tongue over the front of her teeth. “A little adventure never hurt anyone,” the raven said.

“That’s just patently untrue.” But still. Chello huffed out a sigh. “Okay, fine. I am a destiny breaker.”

“Yes you are!”

“Let’s go break a destiny.”

“And also, there is a thing I need. It’s really important.”

“And let’s buy you that piece of tin or whatever that caught your eye,” Chello said. She re-laced her boots so they were nice and tight and grabbed the emergency bag off the shelf in the back room and grabbed the prophecy. She skimmed it before stuffing it into the bag.

_ -Prophecy 18998, eighteenth of summer, echoed through Moon Goddess of the ninth realm, third division, anchored at fairy point via starguard: on the 25th day of summer, Sweet Million, Mage of the firth class, faithful servant of the high order will die.- _

“What’s the thing you want me to buy?”

“It’s not big.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

 


	4. Randy Joins the Fray

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just when the trail of the mysterious night bandits seems to have run cold, a handsome stranger offers assistance. Is Sweet Million right to distrust him?

They got sidetracked by breakfast before they could get to the dispatch, even as the trail was growing cold. Some things just take priority.

The cafe was empty and filled with grey morning light. Sweet Million blew steam from a cup of coffee while Banana Legs worked to put an egg sandwich into his face as fast is physically possible--like transmutation without any actually magic involved.

“I can’t believe only male gargoyles can vote,” Sweet Million said. Banana Legs was unable to respond because he had most of a sandwich in his mouth, but he nodded vigorously. Then he swallowed.

“You know only lady orcs can vote? Kind of a flip there.”

“I didn’t think any orcs could vote.”

“Oh, they can’t. But in orc society. Only female orcs. Just a mighty interestin’ fact.”

“S’kind of terrible when you think about it,” Sweet Million said. Banana Legs put the last of his sandwich in his mouth.

“We outta get out of here,” he said. Now that the sun had risen, and the electric, heart-pounding, rollicking feeling the night air had charged her with was gone, Sweet Million was really thinking on ditching Banana Legs and just going back to Bush Goliath. But she wasn’t sure how to say something like that to his face. So against her better judgement, she took him to cab dispatch.

 

“Glow serum? Yes, very much so. Randy is scraping it off the seats as we speak. As we speak! This city, I swear, will be the very end of me.” The elf took his cigarette out of his mouth so he could cough wetly, and then reapplied it. His office stank very strongly of cigarettes, and had a lot of taxi memorabilia in it. This was a man who really loved his job. Or at least, loved taxis. Or at the very least, loved taxi paperweights and mugs. 

“But what happened? Where’d they go?”

“Where’d they go? I don’t know! You think I know everything? Now get outta here. I got work to do. You kids, your generation all think it’s magic this, pop-pop fixit whatever. In the real world, you gotta do  _ paperwork _ .” Sweet Million frowned deeply, because she had done a lot of paperwork, and also had what could be considered a real job. Banana Legs ignored this insult as if it had never been spoken.

“You can’t tell us anythin’?”

“I said out. You’re both wasting my time,” the man said. They left.

“I really thought he’d help me. One elf to another,” Banana Legs said, kicking a stray tin can while Sweet Million took a deep breath of air that didn’t taste of old cigarette.

“Isn’t that sort of speciesist to say?”

“Well I am an elf, so who cares?” He had a point, Sweet Million supposed. More importantly, she’d taken Banana Legs as far as he was going to get.

“Well, seems like this is where the trail goes cold. Sorry I couldn’t help you more, but I guess you’ll have to actually contact the authorities.”

“Wait, really?”

“I want to be more help, but it’s not like someone is going to pop out of nowhere and say they have a lead for us.”

“Psst,” a voice from the coach beside them hissed. Banana Legs jumped. An orc with dyed-blonde hair and a huge nose piercing stuck his head out. “I’m Randy, I think I got a lead for you on those asshats with the glow serum.”

“Wait, really?” Sweet Million asked. Banana Legs grinned ear-to-ear.

 

Randy met them outside on his break.

“The glow serum, guys. I remember because I was filling in for one of the drivers. Boss doesn’t know, because this guy’ll get fired for sure if he misses anymore shifts. Anyways, I can tell you where they got off, but you gotta take me with you.”

“What? Why?” Sweet Million asked. Randy shrugged.

“Seems pretty exciting, doesn’t it? A bit of an adventure? Working for a carriage service is pretty boring.”

“I believe yer,” Banana Legs said. “You can come with.” Sweet Million wasn’t sure exactly what it was about Randy that she found vaguely suspect (her father had once told her not to trust anyone with dyed hair, but he was, in general terms, a fool, so anything he’d said was irrelevant. At any rate, the three of them left the taxi dispatch and Randy led the way to wherever it was he’d seen the thieves stop.

“So these guys. What are you looking for them for?”

“We’re undercover cops,” Banana Legs said, without so much as blinking. Randy turned to look at him (all five feet of him) and snorted.

“Right, and I’m crown prince of the Frostwoven kingdoms.”

“We’re from the school,” Sweet Million said.

“Bush Goliath?”

“Yeah. Banana Legs was supposed to be guarding something and it got stolen. He won’t even tell me what it is.”

“It’s better if none of us know.”

“You mean one of us,” Randy said. Banana Legs frowned. “Because you know,” he prompted.

“Right. Yes. It’s better if only one of us knows,” Banana Legs said. 

“This is where I dropped them off. They went inside and then I didn’t notice the glow serum until I got back, god it was a nightmare.” Randy indicated a building on the other side of the street.

“RoughWell’s Young Heroes Academy?” Banana Legs said.

“Oh no,” Sweet Million said. A memory came spooling back, of the training yard and the blood on the dirt and the broken practice sword. That was where it started, wasn’t it? Everything going downhill very very fast. 


End file.
